


No Matter Where Or Why.

by amorremanet



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: 5 Acts Meme, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Collars, Ficlet, Kink Without Plot, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Ownership, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet





	No Matter Where Or Why.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morganoconner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/gifts).



Throughout his morning classes, Misha's thoughts stray from the high school English lessons he's meant to be teaching.  
  
He manages well enough—it's a Monday, and his students could care less about _Hamlet_ , _Jane Eyre_ , or _Wide Sargasso Sea_ , and frankly, he's right there with them, so in each section, after collecting the reading quizzes, he ends up bullshitting a creative writing assignment, some nonsense or other with prompts he can't even hear himself saying—and since he doesn't have to participate in those, once the kids start, Misha kicks back. Tries to read his tenth-anniversary author's full-text of _American Gods_ , which he's hidden behind the dust-jacket of the _Northanger Abbey_ he borrowed from Jensen and never gave back.  
  
And for all that manages to deflect suspicion, for all it gets him out of actually teaching anything today, Misha still can't really focus on it. He tries—and he's read this book so many times before, so he _should_ be able to make some sense of it—but all he gets is a headache. After a few pages, the paragraphs all blur together and even when they're clear, they don't make sense. Like the letters are Greek or Cyrillic, and the words they spell some backwater dialect of Klingon. He blinks at text he's read before, finds it completely incomprehensible. Words as simple as, _"Fuck you," said the raven_ , vaguely register. Sort of connect to their meanings. But still fail to make any kind of sense.  
  
He knows why he can't, not that this really helps him any. Like his students in fourth period, just before lunch, and the ones in eighth period, just before the final bell, Misha wants to be anywhere but in his classroom, sitting behind his desk. And unlike any other day, he has something he can't shake, reminding him of how much he doesn't want to be teaching. How he's alone behind this desk. Hidden underneath his shirt, the new black leather choker grates against the skin of Misha's neck—not enough to make pretenses of chafing, not enough to cause discomfort, but just enough to tease him. Just the way it's designed to do.  
  
Even with the protective layer of cashmere, his collar strangles so gently and won't let him forget the simple fact of its presence. Breathing normally proves difficult enough with this thing around his neck on—not that Misha has to gasp for air, but every so often, he rolls his shoulders or leans his neck the wrong way, and the collar seems to tighten on him, and makes Misha's breath catch in his throat like he's two steps from choking on it—and that goes without mentioning how hard it is to talk without wondering if he'll get caught. If someone might suspect what he's wearing—and everything about the collar won't let him forget that his Oxford might be starched and buttoned up entirely, that he might have a tie on (just to make sure his shirt doesn't slip, not even just a little bit), and that he's the one who wanted to wear his collar at work, he's the one who thought that he could handle this.  
  
The cold, surgical steel of the O-ring doesn't help matters any, dangling and nudging against Misha's sternum, sliding against his skin with any movement he makes, but never getting comfortable. Never getting warm enough to feel like it belongs there. Misha supposes that he can't complain, because the ring is also designed to tease him. To remind him that none of his actions are really his own, because _he_ isn't his own anymore, because he gave that up. To make sure he doesn't forget that it's Richard's word letting him come to work at all. To whisper its presence against his skin, as though it's a part of Richard that never leaves, that Misha can't get rid of, as though he'd want to do such a thing.  
  
(Why anyone would, he can't fathom—it's asking a lot of Misha, expecting him not to flaunt this like normal people would flaunt an engagement ring, wondering what's really so wrong with him _wanting_ people to know that he's not just some charismatic misfit teacher with a knack for making social situations awkward—that he doesn't need to fit in or belong anywhere, because he has something better than that: belonging _to_ someone. Belonging to _Richard_.)  
  
Waiting turns out to be the hardest part—waiting for the bell he wants to hear, waiting until he can duck down to the chemistry lab and see his boyfriend, waiting at all, _period_ , end of discussion. Misha's not really an impatient person, and he hadn't expected that, by second period, he'd find himself clawing at his palms, trying to think about anything but how much long her has until lunch. He expected secret-keeping to be the hardest part, not least because this is the sort of secret that could make parents complain about his moral fiber, or Richard's character, or what sort of people were allowed to teach their kids.  
  
Maybe he's exaggerating the danger, but Misha doesn't think it's entirely uncalled for. Even if Vice-Principal Sheppard, their friend in the administrative sector, would go to bat for them, there's no guarantee that his word would keep them from getting sacked, and Misha's kind of partial to being able to eat and make his half of the rent on his and Richard's place. Even if no one would really care, Misha's breath still hitches in his throat when he lets his fingers wander where they shouldn't—when he reaches up and fakes like he's adjusting his tie, just so he has an excuse to scrape his nails along his skin, hook his fingers underneath his collar, and tug at it. He still feels a cold, sticky shiver rush up his spine from only brushing his fingers over the leather; he still gets a hot, thick, twisting sensation that pools in his stomach from just touching the collar, just thinking, _I'm yours—do whatever you want with me._  
  
Nevertheless, it's nigh on impossible not to jump up when the lunch bell finally rings, not to move from behind his desk until all his kids have filed out, not to run through the halls, lest someone get suspicious or call him out on breaking the rules. Misha's nerves quiver. Stay on edge as he gets closer to the chem lab, as he knocks on the door and finds himself handed more waiting—several long moments of digging his nails into his hands, rocking back and forth, on and off the balls of his feet, wondering if he even waited _too_ long, or if Richard had some lunch meeting today that Misha forgot about, maybe talking over some inscrutable Science Department nonsense with Jared, Danneel, and Chad…  
  
For want of some distraction, Misha sighs, glances up at the ceiling, wonders if counting all the holes in these tiles would just make the anticipation worse, give it some extra leave to gnaw at the back of his neck. He doesn't notice the click of the doorknob, or the door scraping on its frame as it slides open. He hears a throaty chuckle, but chalks it up to his overactive imagination—of course it's just his mind playing tricks on him—Misha's always been his own worst enemy, in this regard—he wants Richard too much and he wants Richard _now_ , and that's bound to lead to problems. Misha doesn't even register the lithe body that slithers into his personal space or the fingers drumming up his chest.  
  
He doesn't notice anything, not really, until the O-ring lifts off his chest and someone yanks on it, _hard_ —as he jerks Misha through the door, Richard's face finally comes into focus, all grinning like a hungry wolf and the mischievous glint in his hazel eyes. He tugs on the collar again, once they're inside his lab, and doesn't let up until he's led Misha into the supply closet, dragged him down to his knees. Misha's breath hitches again, his lungs jolting, flinching, not allowing him to gasp and get some oxygen until his tie's on the floor and his top buttons are undone, until one of Richard's fingers slips underneath the collar and drags along Misha's neck (digs into the skin and muscle as it does), until Richard's other hand's knotted up in Misha's hair.  
  
Grasping at his boyfriend, twisting his fingers up in Richard's belt-loops, Misha pulls himself flush against Richard. Trembles and whines at the affectionately harsh way that Richard pulls his hair. Noses at Richard's belt buckle, half-smiling and half-gaping, whispering against the fabric of Richard's shirt, _I'm yours. I belong to you. Only you. Please…_


End file.
